


Border Crossing

by elmey



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmey/pseuds/elmey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>     London and Berlin had been easy, criss-crossed with threads that tied him to home; he understood them in a way he didn't understand New York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Border Crossing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akane42me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/gifts).



 

  
     IT WAS BARELY six o'clock, but already dark as Illya left the office, a dank and chilly November day. Not the bitter cold of the Russian winter that slammed you with an honest punch, but an insiduous tendril of chill that wrapped itself around you, snuck into the back of the collar you hadn't bothered to flip up and into the ends of the sleeves that didn't cover your gloveless hands, a chill that stiffened the ankle that hadn't quite healed.

Three months in New York, with little time to stop and think. And today... today when Mr. Waverly had been particularly exacting and Napoleon particularly irritating; when the commissary's white bread with the tasteless cheese, the too-sweet cherry pie and the burnt coffee had seemed particularly unappetizing… all he wanted was to go to his apartment, drink his vodka, and nurse his discontents.

He walked out into the senseless bustle of New York, the tall buildings crowding together, the huge cars on the streets, the constant fumes and noise, and couldn't help but wonder what he was doing here, in this ridiculous country among these ridiculous people, who seemed to never stop moving, never stop talking.

He turned east on 39th Street and the wind off the river hit him full in the face. He hunched his shoulders and lowered his head and tried to ignore the city around him. London and Berlin had been easy, criss-crossed with threads that tied him to home; he understood them in a way he didn't understand New York. He felt an alien here sometimes, being shaped into something he didn't recognize, finding it hard to breathe.

 

**~~~   ~~~~~   ~~~**

      GENERAL DMITRI IVANOVICH MALININ adjusted his glasses to get a clearer look at the folder in front of him. Why couldn't they get this room to warm up even in July, he wondered. And where was that dratted woman with the tea? He heard the crackle of starched cloth behind him, the clatter of china on the sideboard. Ah, finally, here she was.

"Leave it," he said. "The Lieutenant will pour." She gave him one of those looks as she left, but he ignored it. A good nurse, so he kept her, but he knew who she reported to. Let her watch all she wanted, he still knew how to keep his own secrets.

"The usual," he said, nodding to the young man who'd stood up to help her. Lemon and honey; yes, Kuryakin remembered. When was the last time... hard to believe it had it been five years since the first agreement was signed. But this one had started working for him even before that. When was it?

"September 1954, Sir."

He must have asked the question out loud. He found himself doing more of that lately. No matter, no matter, he remembered now. Mikhail Vasiliyevich had sent him this young sailor who had no use for the sea, his restless young scientist-in-training. An uneasy beginning, but if Paris was worth a mass, surely it was worth.... the boy had gotten what he wanted, hadn't he? And the Department had gotten a good agent, self contained, tough; the way he needed them to be.

We start them so young, he thought to himself. Necessary... but so young, all of them. No idea of the final costs. But then how could they know? All those years of keeping an eye on the endgame, willing to sacrifice pawn after pawn. But what was the endgame? Just today and tomorrow, another crisis, another war. They should be able to offer their young men something better. For a moment he allowed himself to contemplate a future where that would be possible. That was what they'd wanted, he and Alex and the rest... fine sentiments. At least Alex still believed in them. He'd lost his own belief -- yet here he was, making one more move.

"Comrade General?" Kuryakin was standing in front of him with the cup and saucer.

"Put it down, put it down." He waved at the side table by his chair, then took a sip while waiting for Kuryakin to seat himself again. Not nearly hot enough, she must have been too busy eavesdropping to make a proper brew. "Admiral Lermontov has notified you that the agreement has been renewed, and of the transfer." He put the cup down.

Kuryakin nodded.

"From Berlin to New York, into the belly of the beast so to speak; the Committee was persuaded to approve. Berlin... pointless now. Spies spying on each other." He gave a soundless laugh. He'd dangled the carrot and it was snapped up. He knew how to deal with the politicians. He got his renewal, it was the last thing he could do for Alex and his dream... for what once was their dream. "UNCLE was not as easy to convince. They would have kept you in Europe."

The Lieutenant blinked at that, Malinin noted. "A Soviet officer in New York, a calculated risk on Waverly's part. Some might say on our part as well." He watched Kuryakin's face go blank, wondered for a moment, then let the thought go. No matter, this one understood his duty. He pulled the authorization from the folder on his lap and took his pen from his jacket pocket. "Five more years."

Being abroad changed them. They saw things. He didn't worry about their loyalty, he chose too carefully for that, but they saw things they couldn't unsee when they returned. The clever ones hid it, when necessary even from themselves. Look at Kuryakin, such a cool young man, knew not to show much at all. Except for the hair of course. But then even here, the way these young men got themselves up nowadays... he caught himself, an old man's complaints. Yes, the changes were unavoidable. You can't stand in the same river twice; if they were smart they understood. Clever enough, this one. He must know he's more use to me outside now than inside.

He silently read the authorization one last time, then signed. "Five more years, what happens after that is out of my hands." It was the closest he would come to a warning and an acknowledgement of his own mortality. He wasn't offering a choice after all, but it was a chance. Let Kuryakin make of it what he would; sometimes duty had to be its own reward.

 

 

Illya came down the broad, shaded stairs of Malinin's residence and back into the warmth of summer. He skirted the edge of the Patriarch's Pond and restless, walked until he found himself approaching the river. So much had changed since the last time he was here, new buildings were everywhere, blocks of apartments, each one just like the next, in every stage of construction, jostling against pockets of old wooden houses, their alleyways shaded by crooked trees straining towards the light.

He stopped by the huge pool built along the river embankment. As long as he could remember, the area had been a hole in the ground, a deserted construction site filled with stagnant water and slabs of concrete, everything usable scavenged during the war. An eyesore in the shadow of the Kremlin. Three years ago the First Secretary decided he wanted a pool, and now Nikita Sergeyevitch had his pool; the world's largest he claimed, at least large enough not to seem crowded even on this sultry afternoon.

Illya leaned his elbows on the railing of the walkway circling the pool, hat dangling from one hand, and looked out over the expanse of water. So the impetus for the transfer had not come from New York. He had thought that after working with Solo at Fugl perhaps... He didn't know what he'd thought; he hadn't thought anything. _In the belly of the beast._ Admiral Lermontov had said something similar. Well, the old men would have their bit of drama. He watched the children splashing and screaming in the water, the group of four elaborately quiffed young men smoking by the diving tower. The was nothing elegiacal about a sunny July afternoon in a city that hadn't been home for years. No reason to dwell on a last goodbye to a man you barely knew.

The young men were jostling each other now and talking, he was too far away to hear what they said, but it was clearly a challenge; they were goading each other with laughter and shoves. One of them separated himself from the others and climbed up the diving platform. He hesitated a moment, alone, ten meters up off the ground, and then with encouraging shouts from his friends, ran and leapt, feet first, his arms outstretched as though he thought he could fly. Illya watched him outlined against the blue sky. There was something just beneath his restlessness; he brushed it aside. Walk forward and don't look back; things are what they are.

 

 

At first  it looked like it would be easy. Their first assignment in New York had been a dull stakeout at Pier 17, and Illya learned quickly that silence and inaction were anathema to Napoleon, a challenge to be overcome. He'd prodded Illya into ever more elaborate word games; Illya had been amused, he'd let down his guard and they'd quickly fallen into a relaxed familiarity. What harm when they'd already meshed so well in the field.

The stakeout ended in a quick, hard flurry of action, both of them all business now, animated by the same spark--a surprisingly simple success, and their blood was still thrumming when Napoleon invited Illya to his apartment for a few beers to wind down.

"Make yourself at home," Napoleon said, as he ducked into the kitchen. "I can still see the look on Martenson's face when you barrelled him into the river. He must be twice your size; he probably still doesn't believe it. They should all be this easy." He was still grinning when he came back with two bottles of Ballantine's and handed one of them to Illya.

"It _was_ easy," Illya said. "And would normally be tedious. It could easily have been handled by Section 3. I'm surprised it fell to you. "

"Not my usual beat," Napoleon admitted. "But it's up to Waverly after all."

"Checking out the Russian transfer," Illya said, without heat.

"Partly," Napoleon shrugged. " Waverly seems to be intent on pairing us. Does it bother you? "

"Why should it?"

Napoleon waited for more, and when nothing was forthcoming probed further, "Aren't you going to ask what my report will say?"

Illya looked surprised. "It hardly seems appropriate."

"You have a very... _proper_ sense of what's appropriate, _tovarisch_. You'll find I often don't. I'm going to report that our resident Russian is impressively efficient at what he sets out to do, and has a flying kick I hope he'll never use against me. He's also much too good at Botticelli and owes me a game of chess." Smiling, he raised his bottle in salute, and with a nod Illya followed suit.

"Let's get something to eat." Napoleon headed to the desk at the other side of the room to rummage among a stack of papers. "Chinese or Italian?" The phone rang before Illya could say a word.

"Viv," Napoleon said when he picked up the receiver, his voice sliding into a flirtatious croon. Illya got up from the sofa and moved to the window to give him privacy.

He looked out at the red and yellow lights streaming along the FDR Drive, their never-ending flow along the edge of the East River. Everything was movement, glitter and energy; the cool dark water barely visible... He could hear Napoleon's murmur in the background, the easy banter so ready at the tip of his tongue. Removed from the spotlight of Napoleon's attention for a moment, he began to wonder at his own carelessness, his heedless enjoyment of the company of this burnished American stranger. Waverly's "golden boy”.

 

  

Illya had come back to Berlin to pack and make his goodbyes, back to face a fractious Harry Beldon and a city more restive than he was. The air was sullen, change was in the wind.

Beldon had insisted on dinner at his apartment. Illya went reluctantly. He'd always been uncomfortable there. The fantasy of tapestry, velvet and too much heat put him in mind of the decaying Russian exile apartments he'd seen in Paris. He could deal with the Beldon who was head of UNCLE Northeast, even admire his unconventional style; the Harry who lived amid that spurious grandiosity was an enigma to him.

Beldon spent most of the dinner grilling him on the situation in Moscow, sharper and sharper questions that Illya found himself bristling at and finally evading as the evening went on. Not until the dishes were cleared from the table and the brandy was poured did his host come to the point.

"You don't belong in New York Illya, you're a man bred for our world; you understand the layers of history here, the conflicts divided into shades of gray. New York is black and white--you have no idea how parochial Americans are."

"Alexander Waverly can hardly be considered parochial," Illya said.

"Alexander." Beldon shook his head in frustration. "Alexander Waverly is not all of New York, not all of UNCLE either. Do you think that golden boy of his, Solo, will greet you with open arms?"

"I've worked with Mr. Solo, we had no problems."

"Thrown together by circumstance." Beldon was disdainful. "In New York he'll see _you_ as competition. Don't pretend you don't know your own worth." He drummed his fingers on the table. "This is all Malinin's doing. I know he forced you on New York, no consideration for your needs or mine, for UNCLE's; he's just playing politics with the Central Committee."

"That's as may be, but I have my orders." Illya tamped down his irritation, the small bubble of uncertainty.

Beldon took a plum from the bowl on the table and picked up his knife. He halved it in silence and removed the pit. When he looked up again at Illya, his eyes were shadowed. Then he leaned forward and suddenly they were filled with a dangerous glitter. "There's always a choice, Illya. If I were your age, with your skills, your talents... a chance to say ‘I am the master of my fate.’ There are other roads, new frontiers."

Illya shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the intensity of Beldon's gaze unnerving him. "I have my duty," he said carefully, wondering if Beldon was testing him. "To my country. To UNCLE."

"Ah, your duty." Harry leaned back, letting the tension recede. He picked up a plum half and bit into it, using his napkin to dab at the juice that had dribbled onto his robe. "Indeed, we all live with our duty. I should have remembered what a well-trained young man you are. Well, I wish you joy of it."

Two nights later, tanks and trucks made their way onto Friedrichstrasse, leaving behind an open wound filled with barbed wire and armed men. What had been whispers in Moscow took form here. The city's febrile energy turned in on itself, there was no room for anything else. Since the dinner, Beldon had ignored him completely and now Berlin itself seemed to be pushing him away. Illya had felt an almost treacherous sense of relief when it was time to leave.

 

 

He felt Napoleon hesitate before he spoke.

"Um, that was Viv," Napoleon said.

Illya turned to look at him.

Napoleon rubbed the back of his neck. "Vivian. She and her room-mate are in town for a night, stewardesses. Listen Illya, instead of eating in, we could make it a foursome, dinner and dancing... Two pretty girls, we can let off some steam."

He'd been careless. They each had their ways, he would not be lured into games whose rules he didn’t know. Illya shook his head and disengaged, slipping back into familiar territory, "Thank you, Napoleon, but I'm too tired tonight, I'd be poor company." His voice was cool.

Napoleon gave him an assessing stare, then his expression evened out. "Some other time, then?" he asked, seemingly unconcerned.

"Yes, some other time." Illya finished his beer, made his excuses and left. It wasn't disappointment he felt, disappointment would mean he'd had expectations. No, it was dismay. Dismay at how eagerly he'd reached for the glitter when it was held in front of him.

 

 

Alexander Waverly regarded his Number One, Section Two with a thoughtful frown. "Your results in the field have been excellent these two months, I don't understand your reluctance to make the partnership permanent."

"Sir, I don't believe that Mr. Kuryakin will ever bring himself to trust me."

"Your joint success would indicate otherwise. I dare say you may be misreading the situation."

He watched Solo press his lips together and swallow his denial. He could hardly refute the team's achievements. They both knew his complaints had nothing to do with the Russian's abilities on assignment. Young men's egos; inevitable he supposed, but tiresome and unproductive. It was time to remind his CEA to think past his own. "Building trust is a process, a necessary skill for a section head. Mr. Kuryakin is part of your department, Mr. Solo; in the end he's part of your responsibility. If there's a problem, I expect you to be able to resolve it."

He slowly filled his pipe after dismissing Solo. Two excellent agents, more alike than they knew, but not fully polished yet. All the rough edges were rubbing against each other now. He'd been hesitant about promoting Solo. The man was too talented for him not to, of course, but the misgivings regarding his reckless dance with Lady Luck remained. Kuryakin on the other hand... as little truck with luck as with trust. Oh, duty tied him to UNCLE, of that he had no doubt, but duty alone was a meager surety, his agents had to give UNCLE more than that. It was instinct that had made him put them together, and he'd expected a rough patch, there was no lack of pride and arrogance on either side. Learning to work with a partner would do them both good... He looked down at his pipe. Good lord, he'd packed much too much tobacco into it, it would never draw like this. Enough woolgathering; it was time for the two to understand what they could be. What he expected them to be. Solo would have to find a way to get through to Kuryakin.

 

 

**~~~     ~~~~~    ~~~**

NAPOLEON WAS STILL SMILING when he entered his office. Miss Heitner in translation had been more than willing to engage in a mild flirtation. The smile faded when he saw the stack of telephone messages on his desk. Truly, though, he couldn't have come back to the office _that_ much sooner. He sat down and leafed through them... Three more from Viv, his own fault, he should never have given her the number. The rest he could take care of tomorrow; it was almost six o'clock, after all.

Two typed assignment reports, neatly placed in their own tabbed folders, sat ready for his signature. What he _really_ needed to do was talk to Illya. He should have done that sooner, too. But the Russian had been in one of his unapproachable moods. How they could get along so well one moment, and then the next... Illya certainly knew how to ride his bureaucratic high horse when he wanted to. It was irritating. Frustrating. He'd thought when the Russian was transferred--well, the tension between them was not what he'd bargained for.

Maybe they were both chafing under Waverly's attitude that the pairing was inevitable. Illya hadn't complained, never said much of anything about it. Of course the onus was on him to make it work; he'd caught Waverly's disapproving glances when he and Illya were at odds. _Your department, your partner, your responsibility_. As though it were easy to work with that stubborn, priggish little bastard! So cool, so polite--except for the bursts of sarcasm that he couldn't seem to help injecting into his conversations with Napoleon.

Napoleon sighed. Well, it was easy in some ways, or so he sometimes thought... it did no good now. Alright, maybe he had neglected his half of their assignment reports. The sheer amount of paperwork he was expected to process since he had taken over as Number One, Section Two last June was a constant curse. But to confront him in his office, as Illya had done, jacket buttoned up, tie straight for once, and lodge a complaint about his tardiness... just because he had the soul of an _apparatchik_... Napoleon's eyes drifted to the folders again. He'd lost his temper; a quick thank you call might be a good idea.

Just as he picked up the receiver to give Illya a ring, the intercom crackled.

"Call on line three, Napoleon."

"Who is it, Wanda?"

"It's Miss Cornell. _Again_."

"Alright," Napoleon said. "I'll take it." He sat down, and as he reached to push the button for line three, Heather popped her head in the door.

"Where have you been, Napoleon? Mr. Waverly wants to see you."

"Now?"

"Ten minutes ago."

Napoleon gave a frustrated snort and pushed button three. "Sorry Viv, I don't have time to talk now, but we can talk all you want at dinner tonight. Pick you up at eight-thirty." He hung up without waiting for an answer.

He stood up again, smoothed his jacket and adjusted his tie. "Do me a favor, will you, Heather? Track down Illya and ask him to wait for me, I need to talk to him."

"He's gone for the day," Heather said and disappeared down the hallway.

 

 

Illya locked the apartment door behind him, flung his coat over the back of the sofa and went into the kitchen to pour himself a drink. The place had come with a few pieces of furniture, more than adequate for his needs, but when he opened the door tonight, the harsh overhead light just made them look drab. Home and not home, hardly worth the thought; the latest in a long line of dormitories, barracks and rented rooms that he'd never paid much attention to--bigger this time, with his own bathroom and kitchen, unexpected luxuries. He'd been bemused by the size of his apartment when he arrived. He'd stashed his things and made himself comfortable in a corner of the flat. Now, three months later, he had to laugh at himself for the way his life had spread out, books and records spilling into the empty spaces.

In the kitchen he reached for the vodka and thought about taking the bottle into the other room, but decided not to. That way it would hardly last the night. He poured himself a full tumbler.

Illya _had_ allowed himself one indulgence, a new stereo and what was, he admitted, the very American extravagance of a constant supply of new records. He'd shoved the small box with his old albums under the bed. Tonight, though, he wanted the ease of listening to something familiar, so he brought out the box and put it on top of the record cabinet. He looked through what he'd saved and shook his head-- _Miles Ahead_ , Coltrane, some Gould... monoaural, scratched, all played too many times... Except this one. He pulled it out; he'd completely forgotten it was there.

 

 

"Consider it a present." Stefan had slid the album across the table to him their last dinner in Berlin, two days before Illya left for New York.

Illya had glanced at the cover and given him a quizzical look.

"Yes, I know. _Les Choeurs de l'Armée Rouge_. This album has, I should let you know, just won a gold medal in France and I now have a carton of them to deploy strategically-- and a tour to arrange that will bring in the maximum amount of cold, hard cash. The timing couldn't be worse. The exciting life of a cultural attaché." Stefan was at his most sardonic.

Restaurant Warschau in East Berlin was more than half empty when they met on that night of August 23rd. The guest there were subdued; the city was still in shock. Illya recognized the British journalist sitting in a corner with a stiff-shouldered member of Ulbricht's staff; Stefan did too and nodded in their direction. "You know what they say about success having many fathers. And here we all are, denying paternity."

Insulated by his status with UNCLE , Illya's contact with the Soviet Embassy in Berlin was more protocol than necessity; a judicious exchange of information was often useful. He and Stefan had drifted together naturally. Stefan was a few years older, cultured and sophisticated; his double role sat lightly on him, and his outlook on life was wrapped in a layer of irony that suited Illya. Stefan, too, had studied abroad, helped by his father's position in the Foreign Ministry. It was the closest Illya had come to friendship in a long time.

When Illya asked about Helga, Stefan stared past him and out of the window. "She happened to be visiting her aunt over on your side that weekend."

Illya looked down at his beer. He remembered the laughing, carefree girl he'd met on an excursion to Grünewald last year. And Stefan's wholly unironic delight in her company. "And you?" he asked quietly.

"It's past time for me to go back to Moscow," Stefan said and paused, then continued in a low voice. "She would have wanted to come with me. But who can survive Russia except us Russians?"

They shook hands in goodbye outside the restaurant. The glow of the long summer days had retreated and it was already dark. Stalinsallee was brightly lit, but virtually deserted; they both watched as the headlights of a car approached. It slowed as it passed them on the wide empty street. Two heads turned and stared out at them.

"They're talking about renaming this street," Stefan said. "To Karl-Marx Allee. Remake the past and you control the future..." Two weeks ago he would have ended with a knowing laugh, but Stefan wasn't laughing now. They stood silently in the shadows, avoiding the puddles of streetlight on either side.

"Good luck Illyusha, I'm not sure whether to offer condolences or congratulations," were Stefan's final words before he walked away. Illya watched his back for a moment, then turned to go the other way, the album held awkwardly under one arm.

 

 

Napoleon hesitated, twitched his shoulders uncomfortably and then punched the button for Illya's floor instead of his own. He was reluctant to disturb his moody colleague, second-guessing the instinct that led him here. This unresolved two-step of theirs was senseless. There was a connection--they were partners, weren't they?--but each time he tried to claim it, Illya slipped away. People had always fallen into place around him, getting them to do so was what he was good at, so why he couldn't... The elevator doors opened. Ridiculous. Napoleon straightened his shoulders, walked to the door and knocked.

"Napoleon." Illya held the door open, his face blank.

"I just wanted to, uh, to make sure you were alright," Napoleon said as he walked in.

Illya frowned at him.

"I was going to offer you a ride home, but you'd already left when I looked for you. You don’t usually leave so early. Ankle still bothering you?"

"I am fine. I wanted some fresh air, it was a nice night for a walk."

Napoleon gave him an incredulous look and Illya grimaced, then shrugged.

Napoleon unbuttoned his coat but left it on as he looked around. "The place looks exactly the same." At Illya's confused look, he added, "Kittridge had the place two years ago; that couch hasn't moved an inch. Actually, now that I think about it, it was in the exact same spot five years ago when d'Souza was in New York."

Illya closed the door. "There's no reason to move it."

He said nothing else. Feeling uncharacteristically awkward, Napoleon moved toward the polished wooden cabinet with the brand new stereo. "This is new." He touched the lid of the turntable . "Stereophonic. Very nice. I've been thinking about getting a new one. The good ones are pricey, though."

"It was a bargain," Illya said defensively. "Heather has a cousin in the audio business."

Napoleon sighed inwardly; barbed wire and land mines in every direction. "I'll have to remember that."

"Can I get you a drink?" Illya asked, without much grace.

"No, no, I can't stay long, I'm meeting Viv in less than an hour."

"Viv?"

"The stewardess, the one who kept calling today."

"Ah Miss Cornell. Very persistent, I noticed."

"So did the whole office," Napoleon said, ruefully. "She's been nagging me to have Thanksgiving dinner with her."

"That's next week, yes?" Illya asked, not particularly interested.

"At her family's house." Napoleon rubbed his forehead. "I guess you might as well give me that drink."

Illya disappeared into the kitchen, and Napoleon desultorily flipped through the box of records in front of him. Old albums, worn corners, the gloss long rubbed off the covers. Nothing he would choose to relax with, all virtuosity and banked emotions, as cool as his partner himself. Except for... what an unlikely find.

He was reading the back cover when Illya returned, a glass in his hand.

"It was a gift," Illya said, repressively.

Napoleon ran his hand thoughtfully over the cellophane that still covered the cardboard sleeve. "It hasn't been opened."

"No."

He let the album drop back into the box, a mystery for another day, and took the glass from Illya's hand. "I wanted to thank you for finishing the two mission reports."

"I interpreted _'you do the godamn reports'_ as an order." Voice flat.

Napoleon swirled the liquid in the glass before he replied. "You don't make things easy for people, do you?"

"I..." Illya looked taken aback for a moment, then surprisingly, the ghost of a smile appeared. "No, I don't suppose I do."

Small encouragement. "Yes, well. I may have reacted hastily. It wasn't really fair to saddle you with the paperwork just because I don't like to do it."

"You're in charge of Section Two, you have the right to delegate. You should have done it sooner." Illya was matter of fact.

"And saved myself from having an aggrieved partner come into my office to lodge a complaint?"

Illya colored slightly at that, but stood his ground. "I prefer not to have a black mark on my performance reviews."

"Performance reviews? Who's going to blame you for the tardy reports? And who looks at performance reviews anyway? Waverly looks at results, not checkmarks on a piece of paper."

"Those pieces of paper will follow me when I go back... home."

The slightest of hesitations, but Napoleon heard it. The well-travelled box of records, the sparse apartment. He blinked, and something shifted; barbed wire and landmines gave way to a glimpse of tangled roots under layers of snow. "Then if," he said carefully, feeling his way, "you're willing to draft the reports on our joint assignments..."

"I'm accustomed to doing paperwork. You needn't worry about my feelings."

"This is a partnership, Kuryakin. On the missions, at least."

"You are my section chief," Illya said, impatiently.

"Sometimes with you I'd never know it." Napoleon couldn't help himself.

Illya stiffened. "I apologize for my... my lack of deference."

Napoleon felt the withdrawal, watched the impassive  mask come into place. He shook his head. "Good Lord Illya, let's stop now, that's not why I'm here. There's a lot for both of us to get used to. Just pick some ground in the middle where we can meet."

Illya's face remained unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes. Though he didn't speak, his stance lost some of its stiffness.

Napoleon took a quick look at his watch. He was going to be _very_ late. Perhaps it was a good time to leave anyway, let Illya mull over their conversation. "Listen," he said, putting down his glass, the liquor untouched. "I have to go." He hesitated. "If you ever want to look for... for  shelves or whatever else you need for this place, let me know, we can take my car."

A blond eyebrow rose, self-possessed again. "Should I get the urge to turn the place into a respectably bourgeois flat, I'll take you up on that."

The words were cool, but Napoleon noted a trace of amusement in the voice. "I shouldn't hold my breath, you mean?"

Illya shook his head as he let Napoleon out the door.

 

 

Illya brushed his hand over the tightly-wrapped cellophane of the album, unconsciously echoing Napoleon's earlier act. Trust Napoleon to notice it. But that was what he was good at, finding the cracks in things. And it seemed, he had more cracks than he'd thought.

Napoleon was his partner. He might hesitate at that word, but Waverly's decision to keep sending them out together made it inescapable. The old man's grand experiment. They were so unalike, the two of them, Illya thought. Napoleon, gleaming and smooth, always flirting with the spotlight, while he himself... hid behind prickly words and moody silences. He wasn't good at friendship the way Napoleon was. _Everyone_ liked his partner, people flourished in the bright light of his attention, he'd felt it himself. Napoleon gave everyone a shiny mirror with the reflection of what they wanted to see. But Illya still wasn't sure what he was supposed to see; what he _did_ see was Napoleon watching him and waiting behind that seamless facade. Whatever familiarity they'd managed working together was often a tense, wary thing. He still wasn't sure what Napoleon wanted. But tonight, for the first time, it occurred to him to wonder what it was that he himself was looking for.

He'd been staring at the album cover without seeing it; now he frowned. He looked at the names of the songs. Even in French they were all familiar: _La Chanson Du Bouleau, Les Partisans, Poème À L'Ukraine_... Old songs, songs learned in childhood; he knew them all, everyone did.

He'd tossed the record, unopened, into the box with his other albums; no intention of listening, but unable to throw it away. He hadn't really thought of Stefan since that night. How little the friendship had demanded of him... just as much as he was willing to give. It had always been enough. Until he got here, it had always been enough.

He found himself sliding his thumbnail down the edge of the cellophane and taking the album out of its sleeve. He would play it once, he thought, because he'd never thought of Stefan; just once, and then he would put it away.

Illya put on the record, then made himself comfortable on the sagging couch, his glass in his hand, legs stretched out, ankles crossed in front of him. He rarely thought about the past, he saw no point in it. But as the chorus of voices washed over him, they brought a jumble of memories, and for once he let them have their way. Glimpses of childhood in flickering patterns of light and dark; damp Moscow basements filled with talk and forbidden music; the airy front room on Ogorodnaya, and Yelena's hungry kisses; the churn and clamor of the submarine; the silence of falling snow; icy air that cut through his lungs like a knife.

When he drank, his grandfather talked of London and Zurich, of a world filled with friends and with books and... hope. The tears would come as the bottle emptied, then the loud songs that ended the night. And he remembered his mother's thinned lips when she and Aunt Lydia finally wrestled the old man to bed.

"No tears, Illyusha," she would turn to him, her voice fierce. "No tears. Life is too short for regrets."

 

 

He'd gone to see her. After maneuvering through the minefield of debriefings and new briefings in Moscow, he'd had four free days left. The Admiral arranged for a flight to Novosibirsk. He would have gone on his own anyway - now he had to grind out his thanks - but he took it. It had been three years since he'd seen his mother at his grandfather's funeral, two years since she had begun her work at the Vorozhtzov Institute.

He brought her a scarf as a present, silky and sheer. "She likes you, the girl who picked this out," Anna Kuryakina said when she opened it. "Is she nice?"

Illya tilted his head. "A colleague."

"It's the same color as your eyes, Illyusha." She laughed as she did something incomprehensible with it, until it framed her face in a blue cloud. Illya smiled. She seldom acknowledged her beauty, and he was pleased she did so now.

Akademgorodok, the City of Science, was still a raw gash in the forest of birches and pine, but Dr. Kuryakina’s building had been among the first to be finished. Illya looked around the apartment. It was modern and more spacious than he had expected, with a row of windows facing west and a small balcony swamped by a riot of red and pink geraniums, flourishing in the summer sun. The big white cat she'd had for years was basking there, too. It opened one eye to watch him, then went back to sleep. She had a telephone and even a small refrigerator, very different from the cramped space she'd shared with her sister's family in Moscow. "I read your paper on heterocyclic compounds," he said. "Your work's drawn attention even in Berlin."

"Not just my work. The best scientists are coming to us now. We're far from isolated." She paused. "Next month I'm going to Sochi on holiday. Mikhail Vasiliyevich keeps a boat there now."

Illya thought his expression had remained unchanged, but she touched his arm and her voice was stern. "He's a good man. I have everything I need Illyusha, remember that."

Neither of them said much about New York; both knew that all things had their cost. In that way, they'd always understood each other.

"Sveta Rudina is hosting a small get-together this evening," she told him later. "Get out of that ridiculous uniform, I don't want you scaring my friends. And comb your hair, you've let it get much too long. She has two daughters waiting to be impressed." She ruffled his hair when she saw his scowl. "You will dance with both of them."

Her eyes were dry when he left. They had said their goodbyes years ago.

 

  

When the record ended, Illya's glass was empty, his nostalgia gone. In the silence he was embarrassed by his indulgence.

He went to the turntable, took off the record and put it back in its sleeve. "Keep it to remind you of where you come from," Stefan had said, a trace of unexpected bitterness in his voice. "In case you're tempted to forget."

He threw the album into the box, carried it back into the bedroom and shoved it under the bed. He wouldn't throw it out, but the album would never be played again. He knew who he was, it had never been this. The memories were only the past, they weren't home. He was here and something was waiting for him; it was up to him to find it. He'd learned his lessons well. He didn't believe in regrets.

 

**~~~   ~~~~~   ~~~**

 

      THE AIR CHANGED, the way it always does in the moment before an explosion, folded in on itself, gained weight. Illya felt it, his heartbeat quickened in anticipation. He revved the Ford's engine, floored the accelerator, let the car shoot forward as he flipped on the brights. He counted to three, then threw himself out of the open door as the empty Ford continued to bounce down the shallow steps. It soared into the air where the path dropped off to the embankment just as the explosion behind him spewed stone and noise and a column of flame into the air. He'd timed it perfectly.

In the split second before he tumbled from the car, the beam of the headlights lit up the scene below. Napoleon, arms pinioned by a black-clad Thrush thug on either side, forced against the railing that separated the walkway from the spring-rain-swollen Hudson. Dr. Grauss in his white coat, feet firmly planted, gun pointed at Napoleon's heart. Then, as if jerked by a string, all eyes turned towards the roaring automobile hurtling towards them from above.

Pandemonium erupted: the moans of crumpling metal, shots, shouts. Illya stopped rolling, grabbed his gun, turned and fired twice. He heard thuds, branches breaking, footsteps running away. He came to his feet and ran the other way, down the slope, towards Napoleon; anxiety made him leap from the retaining wall rather than detour to the steps. He landed in a crouch, gun ready, to see Grauss lying curled in on himself on the ground, and Napoleon cautiously picking himself up off it. One guard lay half under the car, its momentum stopped by the iron railing, the other nowhere in sight. _Just in time, just in time._ He waited for his heart to stop pounding.

"Nice timing partner," Napoleon said then bent to examine his torn pants leg, stained with the blood seeping from the abraded skin below. "An explosion and a flying car, very impressive." He gave Grauss an exploratory shove with his toe before reaching down to pick up the gun.

Illya moved to the railing and glanced over it. The other guard was lying face down, half in the  river, half out. He could hear the wail of sirens in the distance, moving towards them on the highway above. "It was a very small explosion."

"It was just right Goldilocks, and look what we flushed out," a grinning Napoleon gestured to the muddy and groaning man on the ground. "A ruffed-up Grauss."

He winked at Illya with a pleased smirk, and in spite of himself Illya chuckled at the ridiculous joke. They were in tune at that moment, the way they often were in the field. They way Illya still wasn't sure how to be once the adrenaline rush was gone.

 

 

Napoleon stood in the office doorway, hands in his pocket and watched as Illya, with his back to him, took his suit jacket from the stand and slipped his arms into it. In shirt and leather holster, the broadness of the sloping shoulders and the solidly muscled arms were obvious. In his jacket though, he looked smaller, no threat at all; the unlikeliest of agents. Another way the Russian was good at his job; better than that, even. Layers of contradictions he was still trying to parse. At least they were friendlier now, if not yet friends. More and more he found himself pushing and prodding his elusive partner, not quite sure what he was looking for, but knowing there was something he wanted to find. He'd recognized the same light in their eyes, the familiar shadows below.

There was a neatly typed project report on the desk. He still felt a twinge of guilt for taking advantage of Illya's peculiar Russian tolerance for the requirements of bureaucracy... but just a twinge.

"If you can wait fifteen minutes, I'll give you a ride."

"Thank you, but no," Illya said, turning around. "I want some fresh air, it's a nice evening ."

Napoleon gave him a quizzical look; it had been raining that morning and neither one of them had had a chance to leave the gunmetal halls all day.

"The report on the Grauss affair is done," Illya said, nodding his head towards his desk. "I was going to leave it at your office. You'll have to sign off on it."

Napoleon came into the room and let the door slide shut. He walked over to the desk, picked up the folder and leafed through it quickly. "You haven't given the affair a name yet."

"I'll leave that up to you, you can add your personal touch." Illya's voice was dry.

Napoleon grimaced. "Sorry. I meant to come back sooner."

"Miss Heitner _is_ a very accommodating beauty, isn't she?"

Napoleon read no animosity beneath the dryness, and relaxed. He still preferred to avoid Illya's sharp tongue if he could. He hitched his leg up to sit on the edge of the desk, and winced at the protest from the not-quite-healed abrasions on his thigh. He gave his partner a speculative look. "If it's this afternoon's meeting that's still bothering you, let it go. Waverly's been in a mood all day. He always is after getting Abernathy's quarterlies. He wasn't singling you or me out."

Illya narrowed his eyes. He would have none of it. "Oh? There's another agent who's wrecked two cars in the last month? One of them by _careening recklessly_ down a set of steps in Riverside park?"

Napoleon didn't _quite_ manage to keep his lips from twitching. Trust Illya to keep worrying at any criticism he couldn't deflect. For such a cool young man, he was surprisingly awkward around the old man at times, a vulnerability that didn't bleed into his other interactions. Unable to resist the flashing danger sign, he prodded his gloomy colleague with a stick. "You do seem to have a talent for wrecking cars. I can't imagine how you managed to pass Cutter's driving course."

Illya glared at him, mumbled a few choice words in Russian, and turned away to grab his trenchcoat.

Napoleon's eyebrows rose. "You were saying?"

"Nothing."

"I'm not complaining, mind you. If you hadn't reached me so quickly with that stunt, I'd have been floating face down in the Hudson."

"You let yourself be captured on purpose," Illya accused, refusing to be placated.

Napoleon shrugged. "You needed time to set the charges."

"I can take care of myself. You count too much on your luck. It was a crazy risk to take."

"And your demolition derby ride down those stairs wasn't? "

"That wasn't a risk, it was a carefully calculated action. " Illya was annoyed now.

"I calculated too," Napoleon said. "I was counting on you."

Startled, Illya stopped in the act of buttoning his coat, and looked at Napoleon.  There was an unexpected blaze of warmth as their eyes met. The next instant he looked away and gave a rueful shrug.

"I may have reached you in time, but I didn't prevent the destruction of your _unneccesarily extravant_ suit, did I? There's not much glory in being known as UNCLE's most spendthrift team." He reached for the briefcase still on the desk.

But Napoleon had  found what he'd been looking for. He leaned over and stopped Illya with a hand on his arm. "But there's glory in being the best," he said, his voice low and serious. "We work well together, Illya, you and I. We have from the beginning. It's not luck, it's not calculation. It's the two of us."

Illya stared at him, and then Napoleon felt his arm relax, saw the half-smile appear and turn into something deeper. Fields ripening in the sunshine, an unlatched gate. He knew that  Illya had found it too,  that sliver of truth between them, the trust they could both hold onto.

"I'll take that ride," Illya said. "But drop me off at D'Agostino's, I need to get some food."

"Don't bother," Napoleon replied. "Come up to my place, we'll order out. You owe me a chess game anyway."

 

 

**~~~   ~~~   ~~~~~   ~~~   ~~~**

 

     LONG DREADED, but not unexpected, the message had arrived overnight. He'd dealt with the ramifications as well as he could today. Alexander Waverly sat at the large round table watching the door close behind Kuryakin. He ignored the lights flashing on the console in front of him. He'd be back on the phone soon enough, for now it could wait. He could mourn tomorrow; right now he wanted to think. Admiral Lermontov had been blunt. The agreement served the Soviet Union's needs and they would continue to honor it. The Admiral had none of Dmitri Malinin's subtlety, but he was a practical man, more suited to the times, perhaps. He was Dima's chosen successor, that earned him a measure of trust. They'd be able to work together, he could understand the Admiral, if not all the conflicting agendas of the Soviet State. But then he sometimes doubted the Soviets themselves fully understood those.

He'd fly to Moscow for the funeral, of course. He wanted to speak at the service, to say his final goodbye to General Dmitri Ivanovich Malinin. He would have time to remember the good years then, not the disappointment when Dima declined to join him at UNCLE. Oh, he'd been more than disappointed; he'd been angry. Angry...  it  allowed them both to pretend it had been Dima's choice to make.  Dangerous, difficult times. Dima had survived where many had not. As for what it had cost him... well, Dima _had_ to lock that gate, it was was part of the price he'd paid.

Kuryakin had nodded when Waverly told him, not surprised either. He sat in silence, his eyes wary and shoulders tense.

" _Status quo ante_ , Mr. Kuryakin. Admiral Lermontov confirmed you will remain assigned to New York."

The shoulders eased a fraction, a quickly-banked flash of relief. "Yes sir. Thank you, sir."

When Dima had been able to open the gate, who knew what forces were at work to make him chose Kuryakin and not another... He shook his head. Perhaps it was Solo's luck: tangible yet ungraspable, still damned disturbing--one could almost think it was strong enough to reach into the past.  Well, Solo had his Russian now, more reliable than that fickle mistress.

"General Malinin chose you to join UNCLE, Mr. Kuryakin. I trusted him in the matter. He chose well. I am sure you will continue to do him proud."

Kuryakin looked startled at the praise, the tips of his ears turning pink, but he looked him straight in the eyes. "Thank you, sir, I appreciate your confidence, I'll endeavor to continue to earn it."

He had watched the team mature over the past year, watched them become what he had counted on, an outstanding asset for UNCLE. Kuryakin had found his anchor in Solo, the optimist and idealist he could never allow himself to be. The friendship was as strong as the partnership now.   He'd been right to make  the match, the benefits were his to reap.

He would take Kuryakin to Moscow with him, a small risk perhaps, but worth taking.  A Russian aide de camp would send the right message, a show of trust in the agreement on his side. The board in front of him was still flashing, demanding his attention more insistently.  The line from Europe, two short bursts, repeated. Berlin. It was Beldon no doubt, he would have heard the news too. He'd insist on going to Moscow, as well he should; Northeast ought to be there, and Harry had always been good with the Russians.

He reached down to pick up the receiver.  There was always  so much left to do.

     

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [](http://azdak.livejournal.com/profile)[**azdak**](http://azdak.livejournal.com/) for encouragement, for beta work and for valuable insights that improved the story. And thank you also to [](http://eilidhsd.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://eilidhsd.livejournal.com/)**eilidhsd** for her thoughtful input as a first reader.
> 
> Photos: The top photo is by Ralph Crane, the bottom, a detail of a photo by Jan Saudek.


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